Images
by Slayergirl
Summary: Companion piece to 'Falling Apart', but can be read as a stand-alone. Harry's point of view, post-'Bloodlines'. Minor spoilers only.


**A/N: this was written as a companion piece to 'Falling Apart', which fits into the middle of it. However, the two can very easily be read separately as stand-alones. Please R&R if you enjoy!**

**Images**

There are images that seemed burned on your mind, images of Penny, of Anna, of the children they might have had – of the children _you _might have fathered. They aren't pleasant thoughts, memories, images, but they're not the cause of the nightmares that plague you, the ones that plumb your worst fears. They're not the images that make you shudder sometimes, though they're every bit as real. No, the ones that really hurt, more than all the others, involve a small blonde who bounced into your life six years ago, and has caused you all manner of trouble; the petite pathologist who is, at this very moment, sitting at your desk, staring at the computer screen with a thoughtful frown on her face, tapping her teeth with the end of your favourite pencil. You wish she wouldn't; it's horrendously distracting.

She hasn't noticed you in the doorway watching her, so engrossed is she in her work – facial reconstruction, you'd wager – and you take the opportunity to do a meticulous examination of her. Despite the frown, which you recognise as her 'concentrating' frown, she seems at peace, calm and coolly efficient, as she so often is. You've seen her fall apart, of course, more than once; in fact, it's usually you putting her back together again. Being honest with yourself, it's those moments that have seared your mind and heart and that make you shudder in the dark watches of the night – those moments when Nikki's usually perfect face is marred by tears that you'd do anything to stop. Worse still, sometimes, tears that are as a result of something you've said or done, and that can't be undone. They hurt even more than the images of Nikki lying on the floor of a hospital basement with her own blood pooling round her, the images of her lying immobile, unconscious on a hospital trolley, the images of her lying in a hospital bed, in tears because she couldn't remember which side her fridge opened. Those memories, those images, seem so very far away now.

They've been replaced by something that is, in some ways, far, far worse. Images of Nikki standing in the sunlight, her face pale, drawn, confused, staring into a darkened doorway. Images of her turning away, bewildered, unbelieving – or, perhaps, not daring to believe. Images of her falling apart again as you catch her before she can run away, your arms pulling her close to you as she breaks down, sobbing, clutching your arms before turning and burying herself in you. You can still feel the slight body, wracked with sobs, trembling against you, feel the silk of her hair under your chin. You can still feel the scalding heat of her tears soaking through your clothing onto your skin.

You can still feel your own bewilderment as you realise just how much you mean to her, and how much it means to you not to let her go on hurting, grieving for you, as you hold her there in your arms... was Hungary so long ago? It's been a few weeks – maybe even a couple of months. You're doing well, to move on from Anna. You'd loved Anna. But it's not Anna's face that haunts your dreams. Always, always, it's Nikki's face, tear-stained and pale, that disturbs your rest.

Ironically, although it was you she was grieving for, back then, it's you that feels the need to reach out and touch her, to make sure she's there, that she's real. So many times you've nearly lost each other, but each time you've found each other again. You stand still and watch her, though, waiting for her to notice you there.

You're startled when, without turning round, she starts to speak to you. Had she known you were there all along?

"Harry, look at this for me?" she asks, still frowning at the screen.

You push yourself away from the door-jamb you've been propping up, and look over her shoulder. With anyone else, the closeness would be an invasion of personal space, but she doesn't notice. Or perhaps she just chooses not to comment. Or maybe, after all this time, she's come to expect and accept it. "What am I looking at?"

She points to a set of data results. "We thought it was drink-driving, simple, yes?"

You blow out a breath. "Not without alcohol in the bloodstream. Bit difficult to be drunk when there's not a trace of alcohol or drugs."

"Exactly. So what's going on here? Andrew Simkin hadn't a trace of alcohol or drugs in his bloodstream, had no financial problems, had a very happy marriage with his wife, and they were expecting their second child. Mother and baby doing fine. Yet the other suggestion of suicide by driving the car off the road… well, it's possible, but, really, is that likely?"

"You're saying this might be, what? Murder?"

"I'm saying it's not natural causes, it's not accidental as far as the car was concerned – there was no tampering with it – and it's unlikely to be suicide. There was nothing on the road to suggest it might have been slippery. All I'm saying is, I don't think it's as clear-cut as we thought."

"Is it ever?" you say wryly.

She sits back with a sigh, and rubs her eyes. You realise how tired she is, and you're about to tell her to go home, when Leo comes out of his office. He looks tired, too. "Still here?"

You look at your watch, and realise it's later than you thought. Had you really spent all that time staring at Nikki? You suspect you might well have done. You wonder if she was aware of you all that time. You shrug. "Where else could I possibly want to be on a Friday night?" you ask flippantly.

Leo rolls his eyes. "Pub, maybe? We said we'd try out that new bar on the corner."

To your surprise, Nikki jumps up with alacrity, saving the work to the shared drive in case you turf her off your computer when she comes back in. "I need a drink," she shrugs, seeing your querying look. "I've stared at those results half the afternoon while you've been ogling me, and they don't make any more sense now than they did at lunchtime. Maybe taking a break from it will help."

"I wasn't ogling you!" you say defensively, realising she knew all along you were there. And actually, in truth, you weren't, not really, though God knows, she's worth ogling.

She just grins teasingly at you, and the images evaporate. You know they'll be back to haunt you some more at some point, but for now, you'll take what peace you can. "Is Janet joining us?" she asks Leo, who nods an affirmative.

"I'll text her, let her know which bar we're in."

You only have a couple of drinks with them before Leo and Janet go home, leaving you alone with Nikki. You can tell she's hungry, and you're starving, too – you missed lunch to go to a crime scene. So you suggest getting some food, and, when she agrees, hold your hand out to her. You're a little disappointed when she seems hesitant, and wonder why. It's not like you feel that way about her. Is it?

Then you see her crying over the film you end up watching, and even you can see what's got her upset. And suddenly, you understand Leo's subtle hints, Janet's gentle nudgings, and why you were so disappointed earlier when she seemed reluctant to take your hand, and it makes perfect sense to you. You mute the TV, and pull her into your arms, holding her as she cries and clings to you as if for dear life, and you know she's reliving that moment when she realised you were still alive, that there was still a chance. God, you've been so blind.

You stroke her hair, nuzzle the side of her face, and when that doesn't work, you press gentle lips to her hairline. Finally, she stills in your arms, and mutters an apology. You wonder if you're doing the right things by kissing her, and you make her promise to stop you if she's in any way uncomfortable (though you're not sure if you really worded it quite that way, because you're not really thinking straight right now), but it feels so right that it all just happens. You don't know quite how or why everything changed, but you find yourself in bed with your best friend, and realise that this is what you've been looking for, all these years, and you were too blind to see it.

She looks a little tearful as you kiss her hairline again, and you ask her what's wrong. Then she smiles through her tears. "I thought… I thought I'd lost you," she says quietly. "That I'd lost my chance of… of this…"

You hush her, unable to bear the thought of her being hurt and unhappy. "I'm here. It's okay," you murmur, pulling her close and holding her.

She gives a contented sigh, and her eyelids flutter closed. You watch her as she sleeps, barely daring to fall asleep yourself in case the nightmares return. But, when you finally succumb, all you dream of is golden laughter, all you see are images of brown eyes and blonde hair, and you know those fears are gone forever.


End file.
